


Call Me By Your Slave

by Scumbelina, spoileralliert



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Timothée Chalamet - Fandom
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Crack, Cunnilingus, Drugs, Evil Mother, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Incest, Incest, Inspired by Call Me By Your Name, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Pegging, Pining, References to Drugs, Slavery, Vaginal Fingering, slave - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:07:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24068593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scumbelina/pseuds/Scumbelina, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spoileralliert/pseuds/spoileralliert
Summary: A winding tale that chronicles your journey after you are sold as a sex slave by your crack-addicted mother to Academy Award-nominated actor Timothée Chalamet. To your surprise, you learn that the young man is more than he appears to be, and you may learn a thing or two about life and love. This is...Call Me By Your Slave.
Relationships: Timothée Chalamet/Reader
Comments: 9
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

“Y/N”  
You groan and pull the pillow over your wavy brown hair with caramel highlights.  
“It’s saturday. What is it?” you groan. Your mother stands in your doorway. Her crackhead visage is drawn in determination.... and what might also be guilt. That’s odd. She never was guilty about the shit that she put you through. This must be serious.  
“There’s something we have to talk about. As you know, my crack addiction has led me to desire money, so that I may purchase more crack. You are my last possession that is worth anything. I love you and I held on to you for as long as I could, but unfortunately I am out of crack as of right now.”  
You feel a pit of dread form in your stomach at your mother’s words.  
“Mom...what did you do?”  
“Darling...I sold you as a slave so that I could buy more crack. I’m sorry, but after your father left this was bound to happen. I can’t afford to take care of you on my own and I really need the money.”  
You expected the worst, but this was beyond your wildest fears.  
“Mom, you bitch, how could you do this to me? What about school? You’re ruining my life!!!” You throw the covers over the bed and bolt out the bedroom door, still wearing your butterfly printed PJ shorts and a light green camisole. You didn’t have time to put on socks and crack pipes crunch under your feet as you sprint down the damp, decrepit cave of a hallway. You fling open the front door, desperate to get away and slam into… someone. Someone has alabaster skin and emerald orbs, and the flowing dark curly hair of the jews hanging to his shoulders. Someone is wearing white sneakers and tall socks with sweatpants tucked into them, a windbreaker, and a yankees baseball cap. Someone catches your shoulders with spidery hands and lets out a quiet “steady there, buckeroo.” Someone is…Academy Award nominated actor Timothée Chalamet.

***  
“Steady there, buckeroo.”  
You don’t understand what’s happening. How is this highly praised young talent in the front lawn of your mother’s neglected Newark crack house? You know for sure it has to be him. His face was plastered everywhere last awards season, from Buzzfeed quizzes to classmate’s lockscreens. And who else tucks their pants into their socks?  
“Um, Timothée Chalamet?” you ask, complete bewilderment coloring your tone.  
“That’s me. And you’re y/n I presume.”  
“Yes, that’s, uh, that’s me. But-How are you here? And how do you know who I am?” It dawns on you, suddenly, as your mother appears behind you.  
“This will be good for you, y/n. Mr. Chalamet has a lot of money, you will always be fed and clothed. This is all I could want for you. And crack-wise, I am set for LIFE.”  
Your vision starts to fade around the edges as you feel Timothée Chalamet’s hand guiding you towards the road, a black SUV you hadn’t noticed parked at the curb. You turn around to see your mother following from the doorstep. You think for a moment that she might be coming to hug you, to take you back inside, and tell you this is all some sick joke, but you realize she is only coming over to hand you your shoes, an old pair of vans. Dazedly, you are pushed into the SUV by a man with black suit and earpiece that must be Timothée Chalamet’s bodyguard. The next thing you know, you are seated on plush leather, Timothée Chalamet sliding in next you, the bodyguard slamming the door behind him.  
Timothée Chalamet is looking at you. The car begins moving, and Timothée Chalamet doesn’t take his emerald orbs off of you for a single moment. His gaze is hot. You avert your eyes and gaze out the window, trying to process the situation.  
“Water?” you hear his boyish tenor squeak out.  
You startle and turn to him to see him holding out an Evian, still staring intently at you.  
“Uh, sure,” you say, taking the bottle and unscrewing the cap. You gulp it down, Timothée Chalamet staring at your throat. What a weird guy. Just what the hell is going on here?  
“So, as you’ve probably surmised, I have purchased you from your mother. From now on, you will be my slave. I’m sorry to have to do this to you, but I’ve been looking for a slave for, like, over a year now, and you were a bargain at twice the price. When I saw your craigslist ad, I just couldn't resist.”  
You feel horror at the acquisition of the knowledge that your mother advertised your personhood on Craigslist. Your mom certainly sucks in a major way.  
“Timothée Chalamet, why do you even want a slave? Let alone me?”  
“You see, y/n. A slave is the perfect companion. I get all I want from them and do not have to treat them with the respect they deserve! It’s pretty fun! As for you, like I said, you were incredibly cheap, as well as being very hot, very sexy.”  
You blush at Timothée Chalamet’s compliment. But it also makes your heart pound with fear and nausea in regards to your own physical safety.  
Timothée Chalamet must notice your reaction, for he is quick to reassure you, “I’m not going to hurt you, y/n. I’m going to treat you very well in fact. When we get back to my place, you’ll have your own room and you can take a hot bath and have some breakfast. Then you can go to orientation, where you will view an informational video I made for you in order to introduce you to your new role as my slave.”  
This all sounds fine, but you’re sure some awful shit is going unsaid beneath the surface. You continue to stare out the window, balling your fists in your lap until your nails dig into your palms. You feel a gentle hand touch yours, and turn to see Timothée Chalamet staring at you.  
“Don’t worry, y/n,” he whispers. “I could never hurt someone so beautiful.” His voice is reverent, and looking at that beautiful, earnest face, you can’t help but trust him a little. 

***


	2. Chapter 2

The apartment is huge and luxurious, with marble floors and floor to ceiling windows all along one wall.  
“Here is my home. I call it the Pleasure Villa,” Timothée Chalamet cries out, thrusting his arms out and spinning in a circle in a way that is cute, but also a little bit retarded. You are surprised to feel your heart flutter with respect and arousal.  
“It’s… lovely,” you murmur.  
“Indeed. I’m pretty rich now, ever since I did Call Me By Your Name, a sensual and transcendent tale of first love, based on the acclaimed 2007 novel by Egyptian-Italian-American author André Aciman. Come, let me give you the tour!”  
Timothée Chalamet leads you through the grand entryway, and the two of you strut through a maze of beautiful marble corridors. Finally, you arrive at the end of a hall where you’re met with 12 foot high french doors. He opens the doors with a flourish to reveal a lavender room the size of your mother’s entire house back in Newark. A wall of windows overlooks Manhattan, and an ornate chandelier the size of a Prius dangles overhead. A four poster canopied bed stands proud in the center of the room on a raised marble platform.  
“And this,” announces Timothée Chalamet, “is your chambers!”  
You are stunned. You have never seen opulence like this, let alone been offered it!  
“I don’t...I couldn’t possibly stay here!”  
“Good news- you’re not! At least, not until you earn it! For now, I have a great little set-up for you down in dungeons.” He grabs your hand and steers you out of the magnificent room and back into the hall. He leads you to a very small door you didn’t notice before. Is this the home of a rat? you wonder.  
“C’mon, follow me!” Timothée Chalamet says encouragingly. You stoop low and crawl through the small door into an even smaller circular room of jagged, mossy stones. He opens a trap door in the floor and beckons for you to follow. Down, down, down you go, trudging down a spiraling stone staircase lit only by cobwebbed sconces. Finally you reach the bottom, and are greeted by the sight of a heavy wooden door with a small barred window  
“If you would follow me?” says Timothée Chalamet pleasantly. He whips out a rusted old skeleton key the size and shape of his hand, and slides it into the lock. The door swings open, exposing a small, dank, windowless room. It is empty, save for a shit-stained old pot and a pile of straw in the corner.  
“Welcome to the dungeon!” exclaims Timothée Chalamet. “Your new home away from home! I realize it’s not as nice as the first bedroom, but ol’ uncle Timothée Chalamet knows what he’s doing,” he winks. “You’ll understand everything once you see the brief orientation video I’ve put together for you. In fact, is it six already? Sheesh, time sure does fly by when you’re having fun!”  
Timothée Chalamet opens the small door beside the shit pot, which leads to a supply closet containing several mops and brooms and a dated old projector, which he wheels out on a cart. He fiddles with some buttons, then shoots you a wink and a “have fun!” Just like that, you are alone for the first time all day.  
Suddenly the projector whirs to life, blue light spreading across the grimy cell wall. Timothée Chalamet’s cheerful face appears, and he waves enthusiastically at the camera.  
“Hi there! I’m esteemed actor Timothée Chalamet and if you’re watching this, you must be my new slave. Welcome to the Pleasure Villa! Let me show you around.”  
Cheerful instrumental music plays as the young man conducts a full tour of his extravagant apartment. There are two towers, a stable complete with a dozen young geldings, an armory, and the whole place is only accessible via drawbridge. In the next segment, Timothée Chalamet is seated in the third drawing room (referred to as the “Blue Room”).  
“Hi slave! It’s me again, promising young talent Timothée Chalamet. I will now introduce you to my squire, Humphrey. He will guide you in your duties, which I will promptly enumerate, as well as operating the clock tower where he also sleeps and lives.” Timothée turns the camera to reveal a delirious looking hunchback in a black hooded cape, who grunts and swiftly shuffles out of the frame.  
  
The camera swivels back to Timothée Chalamet, an expression of delight lifting his opalescent cheekbones.  
“So, your daily schedule will look like this: at seven in the morning, Humphrey will fetch you from your cell so you can prepare my breakfast. I am on a Keto diet, and consume a lot of meat, so Humphrey will instruct you on how to properly slaughter and prepare my meals. Breakfast must be delivered to my quarters at eight o’clock sharp – you know what they say, the early bird gets the worm!” He chuckles as you look on in horror. Waking up before seven every day? Your eyes well with tears at the prospect. “At ten thirty, the Mid Morning Blowjob will take place, for which I will once again summon you to my chamber. You must have my lunch ready by noon, at which time I will consume it – again, alone in my chamber. After you deliver my food, you will have magician lessons with Humphrey. He performs nightly shows for my guests, and you will serve as his assistant until you’ve mastered the craft. Four pm is early evening anal, which you will be recieving, except for tuesdays and thursdays, on which you will be pegging me. Seven pm is dinner, and we do cunnilingus on fridays. Saturday is your day off. You may spend it as you please, but you may not leave the apartment and must scavenge for your own food.”  
Suddenly, the rising star’s clear green eyes cloud with uncertainty. He turns to the window wall, gaze glancing off of the tempered glass. He seems to shudder slightly, then collects himself and turns back to the camera with a barely dimmed confident grin. Maybe he’s acting in more than just his job.  
“Wednesdays are special. You will be required to block out an hour of your schedule beginning at five pm on the dot and report to me in my chamber.” His eyes brighten again and he continues as if he had never stumbled. “In terms of your housing, you will be operating on a points system in order to earn your way to a better room. You may earn gold stars for completing your tasks well, and for every ten stars you will be moved to a new chamber. Your ultimate goal will be the Lavender Room, which you viewed upon your arrival. You will also learn about opportunities to earn extra credit stars.” That checks out. Your mother utilized the gold star system as well, through which your obedience and compliance earned you the occasional privilege of a crack-free mother-daughter evening. Unfortunately, due to her raging addiction, your mother was unable to actually abstain from said crack. These nights always ended with you alone in your attic bedroom self-harming, usually with a knife or a shard of glass from a broken crack pipe. 

But you digress. Timothée Chalamet seems to be concluding his monologue, and informs you that he will be entertaining tonight. His best friend, who he says visits at least one a week, expects a magic show from yourself and Humphrey.  
“Thanks for watching, and from all of us here at the manor: enjoy your enslavement!” He beams and waves as the camera pans out, Humphrey scuttling out of sight in the background.

Timothée Chalamet is now alone in the solarium, and as the wall turns black, you are alone again in your cell.


	3. In Which Armie Is Introduced, Alongside His Small Brown Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tension increases between you and young successful Jew Timothee Chalamet

You glance around your sparse dungeon bedroom, and notice a glittering heap on the pile of hay that is your new bed. You inspect it, and note the foul odor of the hay. You suspect mold or dung. Nestled amongst the decaying strands is a burgundy leotard pinned with sequins and a sparkly black top hot, as well as a wand. This must be your new magician’s garb – and, it would appear, your only clothes. You pick up the hat, and a piece of parchment flutters to the filthy floor. It is a note that reads “Dress yourself. Humphrey will be there to collect you in approximately seven minutes to prepare our dinner and tonight’s entertainment. Love, Timothée Chalamet.”  
With no clock or means to tell time, you hurriedly dress. As you unfold the leotard, you notice that it is assless, merely covering your crack. You sigh with humiliation as you put it on. Suddenly, the hunchback from the video, Humphrey, you remember, appears in the doorway. You cower, embarrassed of your visible ass.  
“Humphrey!” you cry. The hunchback stands stonily, unimpressed by your assets. He grunts and unlocks your cell door, gesturing for you to follow as he disappears as fast as he arrived. You quickly hurry after him, surprised by the speed of his shuffling gait. The two of you rapidly ascend the serpentine stairwell and emerge in a spacious kitchen. You slow to catch your breath, thinking this is your destination. However, Humphrey waddles onward, not sparing a glance back to confirm you are following. He leads you to a pasture, where hundreds of cows graze peacefully. Finally, he looks you in the eye for the first time and gestures to the cows, apparently meaning for you to select one. You point at a plump young heifer. Quick as a whip, the hunchback reveals a crossbow from his cloak and with shocking accuracy, shoots an arrow straight into the cow’s eyeball. Before you have time to gasp in shock, he heaves the poor beast over his hump and drags her back to the kitchens. The Chalamet Manor, you are beginning to find, may be even stranger than its young lord.

***  
Dinner is no quiet affair. Candelabras of ancient silver, white gold, and Egyptain jade adorn the twenty foot long mahogany dining table. Limestone statues line the walls, depicting Chalamet forefathers and the Gods. Bouquets of fragrant imported flowers embellish every surface. A silky tablecloth spun from the golden hair of Helen of Troy lies beneath the ornate china. You take in your opulent surroundings as you savor your last minute alone before the master of the house arrives.  
“Y/N,” you suddenly hear in a now-familiar tinny cadence. You startle and turn to see Timothée Chalamet standing at the double doored entrance. He wears High Top Converse and a flowing red velvet robe with a “T.C.” embroidered at the breast. His youthful curls are gently tousled, the perfect frame for his elegant face. You feel a twinge of desire pulsate deep within your gut. That’s new. His heated gaze darts up and down your body, taking in your thongèd figure. You have never been more aware of your own asscheeks. Before you have a chance to respond, there is a loud knock at the front door.  
“Ah, that would be my guests. If you could welcome them, Y/N?”  
You quickly exit the room, thankful for the moment alone to process your own reaction to your new master. All too soon you arrive at the heavy oak doors that mark the entrance to the grand apartment. You heave one door open to reveal a classically California-handsome man in his early thirties. You are astounded by his towering height. At least twelve feet tall, you guess, if not more. Beside him is a dog, undeniably small and brown.  
  
“Hello,” he politely greets, “You must be Timothée Chalamet’s new slave, Y/N.”  
“That’s me!” you reply, surprised that he was informed of your rather unorthodox employment situation.  
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Armie Hammer, acclaimed American film actor and heir to the Arm & Hammer ™ fortune.”  
“And who might this young lad be?” You ask warmly, gesturing to the small, brown dog.  
“This is my dog, Archie. He may look nice, but he’s quite ferocious. I would advise you to keep a five foot radius at all times.” You quickly retract your hand, which had been reaching out to pat the pup. You look into the dog’s small, brown eyes and realize what you should have known the moment you laid eyes on him: he was no good boy. In fact, his eyes told you he had seen things you couldn’t even comprehend. Your knees weaken with intimidation.  
You escort the pair to the dining room, where Timothée Chalamet waits expectantly, excited to greet his dear pals.  
“Armie!” he cries, “And Archie! Come in, come in.”  
The tall man and the indisputably small and mysterious dog rush to their Jewish host and greet him in earnest.  
“Timothée Chalamet! It’s so good to see you, my man, how long has it been?”  
“At least a week, I’d say!”  
“You got that right, brother!”  
“I see you’ve met Y/N. I hope you found her as...enchanting as I have,” his eyes dart to yours and you feel a flicker of heat pass between you. He looks away, but you think you might see a light flush warm his fair cheeks. “Please,” Timothée Chalamet continues, “see yourselves seated!”  
The zealous young men regale each other with tales of their past week apart, while you kneel on a silken cushion beside your master’s chair. After some time, Humphrey enters the dining room with a tray of silver platters bearing the steak dinner you had painstakingly slaughtered and prepared. You notice when the hunchback places Armie’s steak on the plate in front of him, the Californian blushes a bright crimson. Interesting.  
You spend the rest of dinner in a haze of nerves. The magic show looms before you like a great jaguar crouching in the tall grass. After the meal Humphrey does his best to prepare you, but unfortunately he mostly just grunts and gestures at a deck of cards. Nervous to perform, your sweat darkens the back of the leotard. Finally, the men make their way into the next room: a grand victorian theatre. Timothée Chalamet gestures for Humphrey and yourself to take the stage.  
You are relieved to find that Humphrey is a master of illusion and takes the lead on the act. Your only responsibilities are holding props and smilingly attractively at the small audience, undeniably man and beast. After an hour of magical content, you begin to feel more comfortable in the spotlight.  
For the act’s finale, Humphrey removes the black sequined top hat from atop your head, and displays it before the two men and one dog. He grunts to confirm they have all seen the empty hat. Then, with a smirk, he flips it around thrice and gives it a rat-a-tat-tat with his wand. He submerges his gnarled hand within the hat’s cavity, and produces from it a white rabbit the size of a microwave. The magician holds the creature up by the scruff of his neck and displays it proudly, and Timothée Chalamet and Armie shoot to their feet and clap their hands in ecstasy. You notice that Archie is frozen in interest, watching the rabbit ardently. Interesting.  
You and the hunchback bow for your adoring audience. From the new angle, you can see beneath Armie’s bottom, which has been lifted from the chair. You notice two peculiar melon-sized indentations carved into the polished wood. That’s quite odd. Humprhey grasps your arm and the two of you exit the stage and join the men in the audience, the large white rabbit hopping merrily behind you.  
“My,” Timothée Chalamet moans, “You’re a natural!”  
“Rabbit!” Armie cries in wonder at the fluffy beast that has caught up to them.  
“Thanks,” you reply. You blush as you take a gander at Timothée Chalamet’s prominent adam’s apple. Curse your body for betraying your emotions. You attempt to deflect the attention from yourself.  
“Hey, I notice that there are two melon-sized indentations carved into the polished wood of Armie’s chair. I was wondering why this is?” You ask with polite curiosity. All the blood seems to drain from Armie’s handsome face.  
“Armie has a...a bit of a deformity,” Timothée Chalamet says softly after a moment of uneasy silence.  
“Oh, does it have anything to do with those articles I read regarding the CGI implemented post production in Call Me By Your Name? Director Luca Guadagnino confirmed that the shorts worn by Armie Hammer’s character had to be digitally edited in order to remove his testes, heavily implying that not only were the shorts quite small, but the actor’s balls, in fact, were intimidatingly large.” You pause for a moment, remembering the article you had viewed. The two men stand no chance of interjecting before you swiftly continue.  
“In an interview with Andy Cohen on SiriusXM, Armie himself addressed the rumors of his menacing gonads, admitting that the filming of the swooning new classic was hindered by sheer enormity of his nuts.”  
After you finish, the room fills with a tense silence thicker even than the large man’s girthy loins. You are shocked to see tears of anguish fill his cerulean gaze and roll down his stately face. Your surprised stare travels downwards and you notice for the first time, how baggy and low hanging his trousers are. You realize: this must be the man’s deepest shame. Guilt floods your gut like cold water. You turn to Timothée Chalamet imploringly, seeking some sort of reassurance, but the young jew only has eyes for his devastated homie. Wordlessly, the large hunk turns tail and bolts from the theater, bollocks wagging in his wake. His small and brown dog chases after the sound of his tormented cries. After a long moment, you hear the front door slamming behind them in the distance. The room is left empty and echoing. Timothée Chalamet finally turns to you and shakes his head regretfully.  
“Don’t mind him, Y/N, he is extremely insecure about his monstrous cojones. He could be set off at any moment. It will be hunky dory by tomorrow, just yesterday’s lumber put to rest.” You nod uncertainly.  
“I’m so sorry, I had no idea that a man of such physical power could be so fragile, nuts-wise.”  
“Never you mind that. Come, now that he has left we can spend the rest of the evening coupling.”  
A confusing shock of dread mixed with excitement races through your core. The young actor quietly takes your hand and kisses it tenderly before leading you down another hall, where hundreds of doors swirl around you, beyond which lie mysteries your still-innocent mind is powerless to fathom.


	4. Symbiosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sexual content ahoy!

After about a mile of walking in nervous silence, you reach a distinctive double-doored entrance forged of solid gold.  
“This,” Timothée Chalamet intones seductively, “is the Sex Room. Please, make yourself cum-fortable.” He winks at his horrific joke and gestures for you to enter. Inside, the room’s only light comes from a thousand glowing candles, white wax dripping like angel semen onto the mirrored walls and floor. The reflective surface covers every inch of the room, including the ceiling, and the two of you are visible at every angle. The only piece of furniture is an enormous ebony four-poster bed, canopied by dark tulle and strands of precious gems. It stands far off into the center of the room, which is approximately the size of a small factory. Without fanfare, the horny Frenchman struts to the large bed, ridding himself of his pants and underwear along the way. He gestures for you to do the same as he shrinks into the distance. You slowly cross the cold floor, craning for a glimpse of his junk as you get closer. You slide off your leotard with trembling hands. The top hat tumbles to the floor and your long auburn hair spills like a waterfall over your bare shoulders. You approach the bed.  
You finally catch sight of the slim French jew and see, for the first time, his slim French cock. He is perched in the center of the bed, still wearing his button-down shirt. One arm is flung casually over the mass of decorative pillows as his other hand encircles his throbbing manhood. He jacks himself casually, just beginning to get himself interested, but you can already see a twinkle in his eye- the promise of an impassioned climax. You tremulously sit down at the foot of the bed, overwhelmed by the amount of creamy white skin suddenly visible to you. His thin legs are crossed comfortably at the ankle, and his johnson stands tall, as elegant as its master. He is a picture of utter ease, and you are a picture of bumbling nerves. 

“Please Y/N,” he says, voice low with lust. “Won’t you join me in a round of mutual masturbation?” It is phrased as a question, but you know it is an order. You acquiesce, sliding a quivering hand towards your womanhood. His gaze is dark as the night as it travels down your exposed torso towards your visible lady garden. Sex is not necessary, for he penetrates you fully with his ardent gaze. You have never felt so exposed, yet so desirable as you do now. Timothée Chalamet’s hand moves ever-quicker on his blushing sword as he takes in the sight of your bits, which you tentatively begin to fondle. 

“Oh, yes,” he moans, throwing his curly head back, his neck a marble column against an embroidered “live laugh love” pillow. A flush is beginning to spread from his face down to his chest. Seeing the young actor in such a state awakens something deep within you. Your uterine walls pulsate with longing. This was not the plan. You are a coleslaw of emotion as you begin to fully understand the situation. This man has bought you; he is not your lover but your master. So why do you feel such a thrill at the thought of him, of having him inside you?  
You never knew an act like mutual masturbation could be so satisfying, with the object of your desire so close yet so far away. Your fingers waltz frantically on your love bean, as you picture Timothée Chalamet’s rosy rod plunging into your hole. You can see him desperately chasing his climax, hair darkened with sweat and plush lips parted in ecstasy. Light grunts tumble from his sweet mouth like cotton blossoms in the wind. They increase in frequency, and you can’t help but to answer his moans with a cry of your own. Your piercing sob breaks through the air, shocking you in its shrill intensity, and you fear it might shatter the glass walls. Suddenly Timothée Chalamet lunges at you like a hawk diving for a shrew, grasping your face with his lovely pianist’s hands. He kisses the way he approaches a scene: deliberate, creative. You find your tongue in positions it has never been, submissive to his powerful pink muscle. He grinds against you, and you are thrown back on the bed. 

“The hat,” he moans. “Y/N...put...the hat...back on.” He darts off the bed and scoops up the abandoned garment. In a flash, he is back, forcing the hat onto your noggin. You can feel from his trembles and his intensifying moans that he is nearing his release.  
“Say it…”  
“What?” you mumble against his lips  
“Abra...abracadabra.”  
You comply unthinkingly.  
“Abracadabra.”

And with that, he yanks the hat off your head and presses it between your sweaty bodies. Letting out a powerful howl, the dark-haired lad spills glorious ribbons over his speeding hand. He lines the awaiting cavern of the hat, as well as your heart.  
With the aid of the ceiling mirrors, you are able to witness his ejaculation from God’s viewpoint. His small, white buttocks tremble like dogwood blossoms, wracked with powerful shudders of pleasure. With the feeling of his spent wiener against your gunt, you blossom into your orgasm, a morning glory in the sunshine of his eyes.

You lay panting together, basking in the afterglow of your mutual masturbation, luxuriating in the aroma of burning candles and bodily nectars.  
“Y/N,” he groans after what could have been a minute or an eternity.  
“Timothée Chalamet,” you answer softly.  
“Dare I say, that might have been the best mutual masturbation session I’ve ever had.” A soft smile warms his face, and you spend the next moments staring deep into his eyes; jade circles that seem to hold you close… like they’ll never let go.


	5. The Fruits of The Holy Spirit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You learn a surprisingly deep lesson from hunchback squire Humphrey and have a frightening encounter with your melancholic millionaire master, Timothée Chalamet.

You emerge from a peaceful comatose state when the bed jolts beneath you. As you open your eyes, you greedily take in the sight of a shirtless Timothée Chalamet. In the dim candlelight, the smooth planes of his chest take on a golden sheen, like a sunset over the sea. He turns his head and blinks lazily at you before his eyes focus and his gaze turns cold. 

“Good morrow, Slave,” he says curtly. “I see that we appear to have slumbered in a lover’s embrace...this was a mere fluke. I don’t make love, you see. I fuck.  _ Hard _ .” 

A hot bloom of betrayal at his callous remark flushes your cheeks. You stumble over your words as you try to come up with a response.

“I...but...Timoth--”

“You will address me as master.”

You lower your eyes and stare at the crumpled sheets.

“Yes, Master,” you respond dutifully. 

By the time you look up, he is halfway to the door. You watch him shrink into the distance, still in a shocked daze. Before he shuts the door behind him, he pauses and shouts over his shoulder. At first, you can’t make out what he’s saying, but then his words smack you like a sharp stone. 

“Ten stars.”

***

The next day is Sunday and as per the schedule, you rise with the sun. Your new bedroom is blessed with a small window, so you can see it crawling up the horizon, red and newborn. In your daze, Humphrey seems to appear out of nowhere, and the breakfast preparation passes in a similar fog. Timothée Chalamet does not answer his door when you deliver his meal, and you leave the silver tray in the hall, perplexed.  
You had been dreading the mid-morning blowjob, but when you receive notice that it has been canceled you are strangely disappointed.

The days pass slowly. Your master continues to cancel sex acts and refuses to accept his food. You throw yourself into your magician lessons, and hour after hour your helpless body is sawed in half by Humphrey’s unmatched skill. You hardly remember what your head felt like without the weight of a glittering top hat.

At the magic shows, your celebrity lord is cold and aloof, barely speaking to Armie, let alone you. Armie does not seem to mind, and instead carries on long conversations with Humphrey that appear to be nonsensical. As Armie replies articulately to Humphrey’s illiterate moans, you notice a gleam of sexual attraction in his eyes. Humphrey’s are cloudy and dull as usual but he shocks you at one point with a beaming smile, which you find equally sweet and repulsive. Archie’s soulless eyes stare on.

Meanwhile, Timothée Chalamet remains sullen, and when you dare sneak a glance at the brooding bigshot his eyes are as hard as his dick had been once upon a dream. By the time Wednesday rolls around, your sovereign still has not said a word to you. The memory of your shared self-gratification haunts you – had you done something wrong, genitals-wise?

***

On Wednesday, you go to him as planned. You are surprised to see that your tryst is not canceled this time, and as you wait outside the door you dread what might happen at its opening. Is he angry? Does he have another strange demand?  
The door opens, and Timothée Chalamet guides you across the room as if in a dream. You let him lead you to the bed and lay you down.  
“May I?” He gestures to a length of rope on the nightstand. You can’t stop yourself from nodding, and his bright eyes gleam with masculine libido as he ties you down.

You catch your own eyes in the mirrored ceiling and see the fear reverberate from your corneas. Timothée Chalamet secures your bindings against the bedpost and your wrists throb with the pressure of the tightly wound strings.  
You feel a shadow of the desire you felt during your mutual masturbation, but this time it is more urgent – or could it be fear? The ropes continue to tighten around you like a python around his prey. A sick sense of unease builds in your gullet – you know that you are about to be bit...by the cruel jaws of love? Or perhaps something else?

Timothée Chalamet raises his hands above his head and with a low, high “hi-yee-yeee,” he strikes a lighter and smites it onto the silken sheets.

The bed bursts into flames like a funeral pyre, shooting orange rapture to the ceiling in thin streaks of light. You yell and twist, but your shouts echo against the mirrored walls. You are burning. He has tied you to the bed and set the house on fire.  
Glass rains down from the ceiling, shattering over you like a baptism.  
You scream.  
The world goes black.

***

You wake in a cold sweat. Your eyes shoot to the clock. It is Wednesday morning.

It was all a phantasmagoric nightmare. You have yet to undergo the torment your mind foresaw, but you now fear the moment more than ever. What could he want? The cold man who brought you to his castle like a fresh wet lamb, and kindled a love only to cruelly extinguish its flame.

Humphrey suddenly materializes, his cratered countenance poking through the bars of your cell like a pale moon in the darkness. He is chowing down on a delicious Nature’s Bakery® fig bar.  
The hunchback’s eyes seem to ask if you had called.  
“No, I didn’t call,” you answer his unspoken query in bewilderment.  
“What?” his eyes seem to say. “It’s time for the master’s breakfast.”  
“Oh!” You shove the hay down from your bare thighs and bolt to your feet.  
The two of you walk in companionable silence along the now-familiar path to the pasture. The sun glints over the broad hills on the horizon, shattering your dim-accustomed gaze. You can’t help but wonder what this kind of real-estate would cost here in the heart of Manhattan.

As you slay and flay the cow, your mind wanders once more to your impending rendezvous with Timothée Chalamet. What could he possibly want from you that he can’t buy?  
Humphrey can tell that you aren’t yourself this morning.  
“Are you ok?” his eyes seem to ask.  
“No,” you exclaim belligerently. “I certainly am not!”  
He pauses mid-slaughter to place a pitted hand on your shoulder blade. You resist the urge to spill your secrets, but Humphrey’s eyes tell you he is someone you can trust. You sigh and place your machete down on the marble countertop. Your breath rises in a cloud in the cold slaughterhouse.

“Timothée Chalamet is acting a right fool,” you admit. “After our intimate engagement last week, he proceeded to ignore me and treat me like some sort of sl-” Slave, you think. How could you have forgotten what you are? Your master doesn’t owe you the respect you so crave. The injustice of your situation hits you fast and hard, like when you drink a couple of Mike’s Hard Lemonades at a barbecue, only to realize that it was Mike’s Harder Lemonade. For the first time since you arrived at the Pleasure Villa, you begin to cry.  
Humphrey looks at you with his corroded corneas, which at this point seem to say: “Sometimes, love hurts.”  
He shrugs off the side of his tattered black cloak to reveal a fleshy arm, featuring a large bite mark that looks decidedly human. You balk at the sight.

“Armie, did this,” his eyes seem to say. Suddenly, you understand: Armie must have done this!  
“But how can that be love?” you deign to inquire. “It looks so...infected.”  
Humphrey's face folds into a rare, private smile, a glistening sheen of adoration and possible fever covering his face.  
“Sometimes, love is pain,” his eyes whisper reverently. “Also, Armie has a cannibalism fetish.”  
You realize a profound truth in this moment: love is pain, but pain is also pain.

***

You arrive at Timothée Chalamet’s bedroom door at a quarter till five, quivering with anticipation. After spending the day straight boolin’ with Humphrey, your nerves cannot be suppressed any longer. You let your brain fall back into memories of high school. You recall what it was like to arrive at Mr. Harvey’s homeroom early every day, just to escape your unfortunate household. This provided your fellow students with the perfect fodder to harass you with at lunch, when you weren’t scarfing down your peanut butter and fluff sandwich behind the toilet. Who could ever love a try-hard?

You are yanked out of your reverie when you hear a tormented tone behind the door.  
“–And father was always gone for Rosh Hashanah,” says a voice wracked with sobs. “He was always in France… he missed all the festivities.”  
You realize with a start that the pained whimper is that of Timothée Chalamet. Your heart begins to soften with sympathy and you feel your pelvic floor pulsate. He must be in the middle of a telehealth therapy appointment! Your master suddenly feels more like a kindred spirit.  
“I wasn’t remotely surprised when I found out he was cheating on my mom,” the tearful aristocrat continues. “I felt like… it had been happening my whole life, maybe even before I was born.”  
“When I had that intimate moment with y/n, I was shaken to my very core. A part of me felt as if….” His voice trembles with emotion.  
You start at the mention of your carnal encounter. It had been so brief, yet had burned so bright. Did you dare believe it had been true tenderness?  
“But I could never love her.”

The bitter words pierce your shroud like a silver dagger.

The voices behind the rosewood door quiet. This is your cue. You raise a shaking hand to knock and hear the sound of a laptop slamming shut, followed by what could only be a steaming bowl of spicy hot chili being flung across the priceless Macassar Ebony floor.

“Come in.”


End file.
